


surrender (my everything)

by teenageraccoon



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: ADHD, Domestic, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 02, its really much more fluff than the tags make it sound i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28449261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenageraccoon/pseuds/teenageraccoon
Summary: The dream that wakes him up is some abstract, bizarre, unsettling shit that doesn’t even really register before he’s gotten up and paced the length of the room a few times. When he does wake up, all he registers is that he feels like he’s sweat out everything he’s ever drank and that the sheets underneath him are damp from it, and that there’s someone pinning him down and making it hard to breathe.
Relationships: Jane Margolis/Jesse Pinkman
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	surrender (my everything)

The dream that wakes him up is some abstract, bizarre, unsettling shit that doesn’t even really register before he’s gotten up and paced the length of the room a few times. When he does wake up, all he registers is that he feels like he’s sweat out everything he’s ever drank and that the sheets underneath him are damp from it, and that there’s someone pinning him down and making it hard to breathe. The blankets are halfway off already and he kicks them the rest of the way and nearly jumps out of his damn skin when the ‘someone’ pinning him down shifts and mumbles something. _That’s your girlfriend, dumbfuck,_ he thinks, and forces himself not to shove her off of him the way every instinct is screaming at him to do.

She doesn’t really wake up but still tries to curl back around him when he moves her arm from his torso. He sits there on the edge of the bed for a minute with his face in his hands, trying to catch his damn breath, and jumps again when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey.” Jane’s voice is a little slurred like she’s only half awake, which she probably is, just because he can’t keep a damn grip on himself. “You okay, baby?”

“Yeah,” he says. He runs a hand through his hair to try to fix the way it’s sticking up and is pretty sure he just makes it worse. “Just, uh, weird dreams. Sorry. Go back to sleep, okay?”

“Okay,” she says with a yawn. “Love you.” He can’t make himself turn around when she kisses his shoulder and stands up once he feels the bed shift from her settling back in. He can’t really tell whether the place is actually warm or he’s just shaken up still but either way it’s not so bad that he bothers with pulling a shirt on. His skin feels kinda gross anyway, if he’s being honest, like he just got out from spending a week in the damn desert instead of a handful of hours a month before.

Everything’s left the way it was when he went to sleep and it’s not like there’s any reason for it not to be, but it’s still nice to see. All four of his glasses are in the still-running dishwasher so he drinks from the tap before he stretches out on the recliner that’s unofficially Jane’s. The pleather still sort of smells like her, a lingering mix of laundry detergent and deodorant and perfume she wears. It’s nice, and the fabric is cool against his back, which is also nice even though his skin is sticking to it a little.

He turns on the TV ‘cause he knows he won’t be able to go back to sleep anytime soon and lying awake in bed is just gonna make him feel worse, but SportsNet is still airing the same BMX program they were when he turned it off last night, and looking at the dirt on-screen just makes him feel grimy all over again.

Then it reminds him of the time he broke his arm when he fell off his own bike and he couldn’t drum for like, months, and Badger let Paul be on drums in the video instead, and he wonders what the dickwad moving people that his mom hired did with his drumset and whether he has a chance in hell of getting it back and how mad Jane would be if he got a new one and practiced next door to her.

He’s an adult with self-control, which means that he doesn’t throw the remote at the TV when he turns it back off, even though it really is pretty tempting.

The window in his bedroom is still open a little, and the lightly blowing sheet-slash-curtain makes shadows dance across Jane’s sleeping face. She looks peaceful, he thinks, like whatever dream she’s having isn’t one that’ll make her wake up with a sick feeling in her gut. He grabs his pack of cigarettes from the dresser and pushes the window the rest of the way open before he remembers that the ashtray is still out on the porch. He gets it, and Jane stirs a little when the door shuts behind him again.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, even though it doesn’t really matter because she’s not actually awake.

The breeze is nice, even if it means that the curtain keeps blowing against his arm, and the first drag of his cigarette doesn’t hit the same way the meth would but brings relief all the same. He kicks his feet up on the windowsill just ‘cause he can and tries not to think too much.

He can hear Mr. White snipe, _I didn’t know you were_ capable _of thinking! Look at all the good your so-called thinking does us!_ but the asshole isn’t even here and Jesse doesn’t count on seeing him again anytime soon. He tries not to think about that because thinking about that leads to thinking about Tuco and the less he thinks about Tuco, the better. And if his dad were here he’d probably bitch at Jesse for chainsmoking, but it’s his dad’s fault he even had to move in the first place and this is his own house now which means he can chainsmoke as much as he wants as long as he’s got the air purifier turned on. All the smoke just goes right out the window anyway.

He’s smoked three cigs down to butts and is halfway through a fourth when he hears Jane move.

“Jesse?”

“What’s up, yo,” he says out of habit, and then immediately follows up with, “oh my God.” Jane laughs.

“I dunno,” she says. She sits up in bed and ties her hair in a ponytail with the elastic that’s on her wrist and yeah, maybe that does something for him, but it’s not his fault that the only time she ties her hair back is when she’s on her knees. “You tell me. What’s up, yo?” He shakes his head but can’t help laughing too.

“Nothing,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

“Dreaming again?”

He laughs, even though nothing’s funny this time. “Yeah.” He pauses and takes a drag and hopes she might leave it there. “Are you cold? I can close the window,” he adds, because it’s a good diversion and because he’s just realized that it’s been open for a while now. She shakes her head.

“No, it’s fine. What’s the dream about?”

“I don’t even know,” he says. “Dream logic, you know? Shit makes no sense.” She cocks her head at him a bit, and he sighs. “You really wanna know?”

“Yeah,” she says. She gets up and pulls on his sweats from the floor, then stands across from him, taking his free hand. “What was it?”

“Fuck,” he exhales with a lungful of smoke. “There’s, uh– I’m out in the desert, right, like, really far out there, and there’s this dude’s house– his name is Tuco. There’s this deal that went south and then this crazy fucker Tuco brings me out to the desert with him and is all like, ‘you’re gonna cook a batch for me and my homies, you know, you’re gonna go to Mexico and work with us, it’ll be dope as hell, blah blah blah.’ And I say, ‘uh, fuck no I’m not, you crazy bitch,’ and he puts this machine gun to my head, right? Like, ‘you’ll do what I fuckin’ say you will ‘cause otherwise I’m gonna waste you right here, right now,’ and I know he’s bluffing ‘cause if he shoots me then he ain’t got anyone who’s gonna cook for him. And he cocks the gun even though that’s not how machine guns work, but he cocks it and I start fucking– I beg, alright, ‘cause he can’t waste me if he wants me to cook but also _I don’t wanna die_ , so I’m out there and I’m in the fuckin’ desert begging for my life and he’s like ‘yeah bitch that’s what I thought,’ you know, he’s talking all this shit like he’s the big dog.”

Jane squeezes his hand and he realizes how hard it is to breathe; he’s winded he just ran a mile and all he’s doing is sitting here talking. He squeezes back and rubs his neck, careful not to set his hair on fire with the cig still lit. He takes a drag and coughs a little to clear his throat.

“So I’m out there, and I fight the guy. I don’t know how, it’s a dream, but I fight the guy and I get him down and out and I don’t wanna kill him but I shoot him through the leg, right, so he can’t come after me, and I hightail it outta there, but it’s– I’m in the desert, it’s just desert and I’m driving and driving and driving and I don’t hit a road or highway or nothing, and I don’t know how long I drive for but eventually these cops come up on me, right? Like, total middle of nowhere but there’s so many cop cars and they get me surrounded and I’ve got this AK in the seat next to me and I surrender cause I don’t have a choice, I still don’t wanna fuckin’ die but it’s either a shootout or I surrender. So I do, and I get out and I get on my knees, you know, arms behind my head and everything, and this cop comes over to arrest me. But he’s not a cop, it’s just this crazy son of a bitch Tuco again, and I look around but every cop is Tuco, it’s like there’s a hundred of ‘em and the one near me’s got some witty one-liner about me being an idiot and he puts a gun to my head and–” He leans forward, resting his forehead on the heel of his palm. “And that’s it. I dunno. I always wake up before anything else happens.”

Jane is silent for a long moment. Then he feels her hand on the back of his head and her fingers gently scratching at the nape of his neck and she says, “That’s fucked up, baby.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Pretty much.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” he says again. “Well. The fucker is dead now anyway, I don’t see why it matters.” He stubs out the cigarette and looks up. She’s looking back at him, but not with pity or anything. Just like she cares.

“You think you can go back to bed yet?”

“Probably not. Sorry.”

“Then come sit in the living room with me,” she says, tugging at his hand lightly. He gets up—there’s no reason not to—and sits in the chair that’s actually his. She nudges his calf with her foot. “Scoot over. This okay?”

“This’s more than okay,” he says when she settles down half in his lap and half on the armrest. “Sorry to, you know. Wake you up and everything.”

“Not a problem, baby. Do the recliner thing.” He kicks out the footrest, and she shifts herself closer to him and smiles. “We can just stay out here for a while, hm?”

“Okay,” he agrees easily, because he’d agree to anything when Jane is in his arms. She kisses him and brushes her thumb over his jaw and the ends of her ponytail tickles his neck and he thinks he’s never been this in love with anyone before and never will be again.

He really does only mean to stay there for thirty minutes, but when he next opens his eyes the sun is streaming in and Jane is curled up asleep still in his arms and the recliner is a little cramped but he closes his eyes and pulls her closer because there’s no way he’s moving for another hour, minimum.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://teenageraccoon.tumblr.com)


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